


The Trouble with Magic

by ballpoint



Category: Marvel
Genre: 616 - Freeform, Civil War (Marvel), Fanfic, Magic, dr stephen strange, marvel verse, tony stark - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-25
Updated: 2009-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen Strange does not want visitors, but Tony is desperate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble with Magic

**Author's Note:**

> For pensive1. Late, prompt is late. Yeah. Never mind. Approximately 2300 words. This prompt takes place after _Civil War_ has started, but at the shaky point where sides are being chosen before the big battle. Stephen Strange has asked people not to call on him, so he's a tad testy at this time. Beta read: Thanks to e_s for the look over and the kickstart. You rock.   
> Universe: 616  
> Disclaimer: Characters and situations are the property of Stan Lee and Marvel Comics. No profit is being made off this fan-written work.

"I don't understand it."

"Hmm?"

"You and Doom. Men of science and discipline and yet consumed by the art of the mystic." Tony's smile was wry. He and Stephen were in pitch darkness, and he could feel the hard, smooth cobblestones through the soles of his loafers. It was eerie, walking through this void, moving and feeling as if they were standing still, and if it weren't for the fact that there was something underneath his feet, it would be akin to floating.

"Look at where we are, Tony," Stephen's words were accompanied by a flash of light.

Reflexively, Tony threw a hand up to shield his eyes, and did not take it away before they became accustomed to the sight before him.

There stood Stephen a little ways, a spark of light in his cupped hands, bathing his form in its phosphorescence. His attention was focused on the spark of light, and with gentle waving motions of his fingers, it grew until it was the size of an egg, then stopped. Stephen's eyes were hooded, his mouth a moue of concentration as he shifted the position of his hands around the floating orb, one above the other below, his fingers splayed as if trying to stretch its form.

Stephen gave a slow smile as he moved his hands apart, the light hovering at mid chest level, a wink of power before the Eye of Agamotto at his throat. Then it flew straight and true into the darkness overhead, before shattering into points of luminescence, and Tony had the shock of seeing where they were.

Both men were standing on a small wooden raft, being carried on the tumble and froth of the currents of wind.

The sky was the colour of hammered copper, instead of a moon there was a woman's face, her hair swirled around her features and shoulders as if she were underwater; her eyes were closed, and she had no mouth.

"That will do," Stephen said.

"It's a good trick," Tony conceded, his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat.

"But you've never been comfortable with magic," Stephen sighed, his cloak a gold tipped scarlet flow in the breeze.

"That's the upshot of it," Tony shrugged his shoulders. "But since you're a difficult man to get a hold of..."

"You're willing to come onto the realm."

Tony smiled at this, and it was all teeth, no humour. "If you can't bring the mountain to Mohammed," he began, "you go where you need to go, although I'd prefer being at your home on the-" at this he stopped, flinching at how stupid it sounded. "Physical realm."

"Of course," Stephen said, and with a wave of his hand, the raft disappeared. Tony was startled to feel the flex and flow of gangplank underneath his feet because they were just on currents of wind and - he looked down, and instead of wood lashed together with rope, it seemed to be a ... giant human bicep in motion, the limb slow and deliberate in its movement.

_God_, he thought. _I hate magic_.

Stephen didn't stop walking, and Tony kept up his pace, noting that with every few steps, the background shifted, like clouds caught in fast moving wind. There was the sudden drop in temperature and the tint of shadow as if the sun - if there had been a sun here- crept behind a fog, but no, it was just the shadow of something heavy and angular. Only for Tony to feel the push of wind against his face and... oh. The shadow was a misshapen honeycomb, with long, curved fluttering eyelashes.

Black curved fans in a wall of heavy silver, all shifting simultaneously, and caused Tony to do a double take.

"It's been a while since we last spoke, Stephen," Tony said at last, as he tried not to frown at the wall of eyes that followed them, each eye peering from its hexagonal space. They varied in size, each iris a different colour, each expression new. After a nervy minute of all the eyes staring at him, they narrowed with suspicion, and followed him as he and Stephen walked on. Figures, Tony thought, magic hates me too.

"I deemed it so, Tony," Stephen replied at last, tucking his hands behind his back as if he were a professor giving a lecture. "After the last meeting of the Illuminati regarding the SHRA, my views haven't changed. I told you I want no part of it."

"Your help would be invaluable, Stephen," Tony began, willing himself not to sound desperate, despite everything, he was a business man to the bone. A game face and a calm tone were his weapons on any 'realm'. "You know," he continued," you know what will happen if-"

"No," Stephen raised his hand to shoulder height as a signal for silence, the dark spots moving along the surface of his gloves as if they were dust motes on the wind. Tony stopped talking. "My powers might allow me to see other realms or futures, but I cannot share them with you. But..." Stephen acknowledged with a curt nod, "not that you're here for that anyway."

"Stephen," Tony sighed. Lord, he felt so weary, so... "You know the steps I've taken, you know that-"

"They've been deflected, yes."

"You also know that Steve-"

"Is thinking, processing. He has chosen a side, it's not yours."

"We've had opposing viewpoints before, but we-"

"Might not come back from this one, no." Stephen's voice was warm with compassion, his eyes kind. "I was a doctor before I became a sorcerer, Tony."

"But we can win this thing, if you come on side." Tony gritted through his teeth, because he was not here for commiserations, just a result.

"Tony, I'm not unsympathetic to your cause," Stephen's voice was matter of fact, and Tony could only nod, his hands tucked into his pockets, his collar popped against the wind as they were on _another_ raft floating through and above the clouds. Oh, of course. He frowned at the white noise beneath him, half thinking that they were above a waterfall, leaned over its edge and looked below, just to see rain falling on the city of New York, its buildings stretching towards them. Tony blinked again, noting at how plastic and shiny the city looked from their vantage point, as if it had been built from legos.

"You saved my life when Namor and I had heated... discourse," Tony said at last, not wanting to state the obvious, and was heartened to see Stephen's lips quirk in a faint smile.

"Namor overstepped then," Stephen agreed. "We are men of learning and power and should aquit ourselves as such, but..." At this his face shifted into stern lines. "But with SHRA, he's right. T'challa is right. Tony-" Stephen stopped, curled his hands into loose fists, his gloves snug and a dull gold.

"Say it. You've said this much, finish it, Stephen."

"With your wanting to reorder, to _control_, you'll cause chaos. Walk away, forget the act or-" Stephen lifted his gaze, his eyes grey and hard as stone.

"No. You can't ask me to do that," Tony said, feeling betrayed. "You can't ask me to walk away, to not try to change it from within."

"If you continue on the path you've set Tony, you _will_ lose. On every level. Some losses are ... unimaginable. Ineffable."

"Rocks fall, everybody dies? Are you telling me the future, then?" Reckless, Tony yanked his hands out of his pockets and spread them wide. His words were harsh, a taunt. "Another parlour trick, Stephen? It's easy being _here_, instead of being in a world that needs you." Stephen's eyes flashed molten and silver, and Tony knew it was suicide, spurring him on, but Stephen had to understand, to come on side. He just _had_ to.

Tony had already lost Steve's support, but Stephen... with Stephen he told himself it would not matter.

"No man would dare tell you your destiny, Tony. You make your own."

A minute of terse, heavy silence, nothing save the drum of rain lashing the buildings and roads below. "This is a no, then."

"This is a no," Stephen affirmed. "I choose no side."

"Good," Tony spat. "At least I don't have to worry about fighting you."

In the quiet that followed, Tony realised that he had gone too far.

Stephen only laughed, and it was bitter as the squall that suddenly came out of nowhere, greedy fingers of wind tugging at Tony's hair and coat, the slap and punch of the chill and power blind siding him. Literally stealing his breath away as Tony dropped to his knees, his hands frantically trying to loosen the Windsor knot of the tie around his neck, his vision greyed, Stephen's voice was distant.

"You've overstayed your welcome Tony," Stephen raised his hand, a ribbon of light at the tip of his index and forefinger. "Let me see you out."

A flash of light, a gust of air, and Tony found himself lifted up, spun about and tried himself to grab on to something, _anything_, and suddenly, his hand was on a rung. Not a ladder, just a rung, its metal form warm under his fingers. The rest of him floating, and not falling as he thought he would.

"Any other time, I'd be impressed," Stephen said. "For someone who has no truck with magic, your will is strong enough to bend the forces here."

Tony raised his head, and saw Stephen floating above him, his cloak an expanse of scarlet and gold as it snapped and cracked around him, as if it were a giant sail caught in the grip of a smart wind. His features were set, his eyes cool and distant.

"Stephen-"

"You've disturbed my inner sanctum long enough. I desire solitude. I shall have it."

The solid form of the rung dissolved, flowed through his fingers like water, and suddenly, Tony was in free fall. Feverishly, he called his suit to him, not - wanting - please, come on. Come on, _come on_ and he felt the metal of his undersuit seeping through his skin, each pore stretching, tiny slivers of torment everywhere.

Pain. Breath. Desperation. Fear. Darkness, so thick there was no sound, so slick in that gravity seemed to work faster.

It had to work, kick in, damn it, _kick in_ and sweet blessed extremis, Tony was now armour clad, and pulling up. If only- it was no use, as he tumbled through space, too stunned to scream, to take it all in, as Strange floated further above him, cloak a scarlet banner in the wind.

Before he had time to manoeuvre, Tony slammed full tilt into the ground. The extremis, he thought, oh -

Tony's consciousness was guttering, like a flame in a strong wind. The world around him flickered, as he processed various images, interspersed with blocks of black. The edges of walls grew tiny teeth, and zipped themselves together. Beams and slats of wood interlocked like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, firmed, and formed the roof. His armor clattered to the ground around him, the under-armour disappearing into his pores, leaving his skin unblemished.

Then, darkness.

With a start, Tony came to, flat on his back, eyes wide and unseeing. Instinctively, he flashed his arm up, palm out for a repulsor blast. Only to find himself clad in the suit and overcoat that he wore over here to see Strange. Tony rolled on to his stomach and pushed himself off the ground then, drew in a ragged breath while he was on his hands and knees. With a shaky hand he wiped at his mouth, and flinched at the blood on his fingers. After the world stilled, he stood, on shaky legs, then instinctively brushed and straightened his clothing. He was in Stephen's study, a warm room with floor to wall bookcases, two comfortable seating chairs with a low coffee table between them, in front of the fireplace, and no one in the room save him.

_Never call on me again_, the press of voice in Tony's mind, and suddenly, the door swung open, and the sounds and scents of the city rushed inside. Tony could only nod, as he made his way to the door. As he reached the door, Tony turned around, not wanting to leave the situation as it was.

"I'm sorry," he said to the room, for if walls had ears, it would be in this house. "But the die is cast, I can't turn back."

There was nothing but the rustle of wind as it gently pushed him over the threshold, and shut the door behind him with a firm click. Tony was now outside. It was late, a lovely early spring evening, the citizens of Greenwich Village passed the steps of Stephen Strange's house; their laughter on the air. The darkness held at bay by the old fashioned warm street lighting.

Across the way, Tony looked in the direction of Stark Tower, shining like a beacon in the distance. Damn the SHRA. Damn Steve and Stephen for being so difficult.

I'll manage, Tony thought, I always do.

Tony felt his legs give way underneath him, the solid weight of the door at his back, the chill of the concrete through his coat, against his seat and thighs.

I'll move, soon.

Tony sat on the step for a long time, thinking about nothing.

Fin.


End file.
